Someone once told me that when you give birth to a daughter, you've just met the person whose hand you'll be holding the day you die.

Sometimes Chris wished he could sneak a peek at the back of the book, so to speak, and see how it was all going to turn out, so that he wouldn't have to bother going through the motions.

you can love a person and still hate the decisions they've made, can't you?

I imagine how cool it would be if all small talk wasn't lies.

What could it be like to find out, in a matter of minutes, that the person you believed the sun rose and set on was not the person you'd thought?

Each memory is like a paper flower stowed up a magician's sleeve: invisible one moment and then so substantial and florid the next I cannot imagine how it stayed hidden all this time. And like those paper flowers, once they've been let loose in the world, the memories are impossible to tuck away again.

Scars are just a treasure map for pain you've buried too deep to remember.